Readings (Track 1)

“Hear what the Spirit is saying to the Churches” we say. Well, what might the Spirit be saying to us through today’s readings? Let’s take the Gospel first, then the other readings.

Over the last two Sundays we’ve been hearing Jesus describe the practices necessary for this “church” project to not go sideways: humility, attentiveness, responsiveness, and forgiveness—as often as necessary. We could hear today’s parable as a continuation of that description, now focusing on the recurrent temptation to say “we’ve done the heavy lifting; that should be recognized.” Maybe originally it was what the Jewish Christians were saying regarding the Gentile Christians: OK, they can come on board, but keep them in economy class. But it can play out in multiple ways—we’re good at recognizing what might give us an edge—and Jesus is warning us that God’s kingdom doesn’t work like that. (So there’s considerable overlap with what we heard Paul saying a few weeks back: “Live in harmony with one another; do not be haughty…” [Rom. 12:16]).

The other readings. Toward the end of our second reading just after mentioning “your salvation” we hear “For he has graciously granted you the privilege not only of believing in Christ, but of suffering for him as well.” What do we make of that? Whether on radio stations, TV channels, or the internet it’s easy to hear that salvation—if we really have enough faith—means being in a bubble in which Nothing Bad Happens. Scripture can be dragged in, like the text the devil used with Jesus (“For he will command his angels concerning you… so that you will not dash your foot against a stone” [Ps. 91:11-12]), conveniently omitting “When they call to me, I will answer them; I will be with them in trouble, I will rescue them and honor them” (Ps. 91:15). Even in this psalm full of over-the-top promises of protection there’s plenty of space for trouble and the need for rescue.

Paul has put salvation and suffering together. How does that work? In our first reading the Israelites are suffering, facing starvation, and the meager rations in Egypt are looking pretty good. God provides—miraculously—food in the wilderness. Praise is possible also in the wilderness.

Let’s extrapolate, thinking about that stretch before the quails and manna arrive. The suffering that touches us and those we care about is often physical. The healings in the Gospels, the healings that we witness today attest to the endgame: God desires our health, our flourishing. And God desires our healing solidarity with our neighbors, that God’s love be visible in the midst of this creation’s suffering. Recall Paul: the creation “subjected to futility,” now in “its bondage to decay,” “groaning in labor pains until now” (Rom. 8:20-22). Except in extreme cases I have choices in suffering: my suffering is all that matters—or not; I’m patient with my care-givers—or not; I nurture hope—or not; etc. Elsewhere Paul gives us another way of thinking about this: “Even though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed day by day. For this slight momentary affliction is preparing us for an eternal weight of glory beyond all measure” (2 Cor. 4:16-17). As we pray for those on our prayer list, we pray for their healing and we pray that in the midst of their suffering they may be a blessing to those around them. As Jesus put it “The kingdom of heaven is like yeast that a woman took and mixed in with three measures of flour until all of it was leavened.” (Matt. 13:33). Empowered by the Spirit, the choices I make in my suffering are part of that yeast. Or, as the SEALs put it, “I am never out of the fight.”

Let’s come at this from a different angle. The suffering Paul’s talking about in our second reading is from the government: some mix of Empire and local elites. We’re in a different, but no less challenging, situation. One of the confessions we often use speaks of “the evil that enslaves us, the evil we have done, and the evil done on our behalf.” As the Wall Street Journal reports, Exxon’s scientists were warning back in 1977 that fossil fuels were contributing to global warming while the company continued to downplay that contribution.[1] And on our southern border, razor wire on floating barricades. We can be thankful the Holy Family fleeing Herod did not have to cross there.

Whether at the top or bottom of the totem pole the options look pretty limited. This is captured powerfully in Brecht’s Three Penny Opera. The translation is stilted, but therefore appropriate for a Sunday morning.“Of course I am unfortunately right, / The world is poor and man is bad. / We would be good—instead of coarse / But circumstances just aren’t so.” Salvation: not being trapped in this dog-eat-dog script. Salvation, again, not being cocooned from this world, but having new options. “Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing” (Lk. 23:34). To rewind three weeks, it’s about Paul’s “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good” (Rom. 12:21), about Gerhard Lohfink’s argument that “the consequences of sin have to be worked off,” or as Martin Luther King Jr encouraged those attempting to desegregate municipal buses, “Be loving enough to absorb evil and understanding enough to turn an enemy into a friend.” Suffering and salvation.

Back to Paul: “For he has graciously granted you the privilege not only of believing in Christ, but of suffering for him as well.” “Graciously”? “Privilege”? This is not the world we would have designed, but it’s the world in which we find ourselves, a world constantly threatening to rob us of any meaningful agency. But God in Christ has restored that agency, so that with Christ we may continue the project of—as the Jews put it—healing the world. Praise is possible also in the wilderness, and even before the quails and manna show up.

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[1] See https://www.npr.org/2023/09/14/1199570023/exxon-climate-change-fossil-fuels-global-warming-oil-gas, accessed 9/18/2023.

Readings (Track 1)

Last week’s reading dropped us into the middle of Jesus’ description of the sort of people we need to be for this ‘church’ to function properly: humble, attentive, responsive, and ready to engage in some fairly risky behavior when a member of the church sinned against us. (“If another member of the church sins against you, go and point out the fault when the two of you are alone.”) The obvious question: how often do we need to repeat that procedure?

There’s some evidence that similar questions had been addressed by other rabbis. Sometimes they went back to the prophet Amos. We repeatedly encounter this in the first two chapters: “Thus says the LORD: For three transgressions of Damascus, and for four, I will not revoke the punishment” (Amos 1:3). So forgive three times (somewhat more generous than the three strikes rule)? Peter, doubling that number and adding one for good measure, may have thought he was at the upper end of the possible options. “Lord, how often shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? As many as seven times?” Jesus’ response “I do not say to you seven times, but seventy times seven,” would have been a surprise. Other translations give “seventy-seven times;” in either case the point is that it’s effectively an unlimited number of times.

So Jesus explains with a parable. The kingdom of heaven is like a king who sets out to settle accounts with his servants, and immediately encounters one who owes an astronomical sum. The king orders him and his family sold to begin settling the debt; the servant begs for mercy; the king has pity, releases him, forgives the debt. (That would—we might think—have been a really good place to end the parable.)  The servant goes out and encounters a fellow servant who owes him a modest sum. The scene (calling in of the debt, the pleading for mercy) is repeated, but the servant/creditor refuses to show mercy and delivers the fellow-servant to prison. Other servants see all this, report it to the king, and the first servant is soon before the king again: “’You wicked servant! I forgave you all that debt because you besought me; and should not you have had mercy on your fellow servant, as I had mercy on you?’ And in anger his lord delivered him to the jailers, till he should pay all his debt. So also my heavenly Father will do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother from your heart.”

The parable hinges two things: (1) the staggering contrast between the amount the servant owed to the king and the amount his fellow-servant owed him, (2) the conviction that receiving mercy established an obligation to show mercy. Jesus’ last words (“So also my heavenly Father will do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother from your heart.”) leave no doubt regarding the parable’s interpretation.

“One was brought to him who owed him ten thousand talents…” That’s Jesus’ description of the predicament each one of us is in before God. It summarizes the communal confessions scattered throughout the Old Testament which are in turn reflected in our confessions (“we have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep, we have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts, we have offended against thy holy laws…”). Were God to even begin to “get tough on crime” each of us would be in an impossible situation. The Good News of the Gospel is that we don’t get what we deserve.

In context, as I suggested, these verses are a continuation of Jesus’ description of the sort of people we need to be for the church to function. What they add to the preceding verses is not only the teaching that we should be prepared to forgive fellow believers an unlimited number of times, but the reminder that this willingness properly flows from an awareness of how much we’ve been forgiven. Let’s stay with this a bit longer…

In contrast to some regrettable forms of popular piety, God is not interested in emphasizing the depth of the hole we’ve dug for ourselves outside the double call to gratitude and generosity (as in this text). Today’s text is the only time in this Gospel that the crushing debt that God has forgiven is stressed, and it’s precisely in the context of the implicit obligation of gratitude and the explicit obligation of generosity. (Parenthetically, it would be hard to overestimate the role of gratitude in making forgiveness possible—but that would be another sermon.

Besides stressing the importance of forgiveness, the parable is a sort of “you are here” map. Like the unforgiving servant we’re in the space between the receipt of God’s forgiveness (our Baptism), and an accounting regarding our forgiveness of others (the Last Judgment). We don’t earn our salvation, but, as this parable warns, we’re capable of trashing it.

In other words, while our salvation is free in the sense that we don’t buy it, it is not free in the no-strings-attached sense. Jesus makes this explicit in presenting and explaining what we call “the Lord’s Prayer.” “And forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors.” That is, in fact, the only clause in the Lord’s Prayer that our Lord footnotes: “For if you forgive others their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you; but if you do not forgive others, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.” And this obligation to forgive is, in turn, also an expression of the Sermon on the Mount’s call to “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you” (Mt 5:44). Implicit in all this is the logic of the parable: we’re to love our enemies because God loved us when we were His enemies (Rom 5).

“Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us.” The simplicity of the petition can be misleading, for forgiveness is some of the hardest work we do as Christians. Some things we can forgive easily; some things we may spend a lifetime trying to get to the point of being able to desire to be able to forgive. In Letters to Malcolm: Chiefly on Prayer C.S. Lewis writes “Last week, while at prayer, I suddenly discovered—or felt as if I did—that I had really forgiven someone I had been trying to forgive for over 30 years. Trying, and praying that I might” (p.106).

To step back a little from the parable, to forgive, obviously, is not to say that the debt or offense doesn’t matter. The claims of justice are recognized—and suspended. As in the parable, the debt is wiped from the books. With regard to that now-cancelled debt, the person I forgive does not owe me anything. This gives the relationship a future—but it doesn’t determine what that future will be. To say “I forgive you” is not to say “I’m going to pretend that it never happened, and things will continue just as they have been.” So, for example, a Christian in an abusive relationship has the obligation to work to be able to forgive the abuser, but that obligation, that forgiveness, does not mean staying vulnerable to that abuse. As in the first lesson, the first priority is often to get Israel out of Egypt.

But back to the parable, where the first servant says “Have patience with me, and I will pay you everything.” And contrary to all reasonable expectation: “And out of pity for him, the lord…released him and forgave him that debt.” May we let that moment in the parable sink in deep and transform our very being.

Readings (Track 1)

“If another member of the church sins against you…” Well, fight-or-flight kicks in. Fight-or-flight may mean:

• Watch for an opportunity to get even.

• Say nothing.

• Withdraw from the church.

Or some combination of all of the above. Not only are these responses we’ve been honing since the playground, they’re the responses that help maintain our sometimes precarious place as a species at the top of the food chain. And here is Jesus saying: “go and point out the fault when the two of you are alone.” How do we make sense of this?

Let’s circle around it…

Two weeks ago we heard Jesus’ ^“And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church…” (Mat 16:18 NRSV). On Jesus’ lips ‘church’ does not have an obvious pre-defined meaning; Jesus needs to explain what this ‘church’ is, what it’s for, how it will operate. Today’s lesson is part of that explanation. Last week we heard Jesus’ confrontation with Peter, and his words “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” “Take up their cross…” is an open-ended metaphor; Jesus’ words today give it some specificity, not in relation to the Romans, but in relation to other members of the church.

Now vv.15ff are counter-intuitive enough, dangerous enough if done badly, that Matthew prepares for them in vv.1-14. The disciples are called to humility, the humility of a child. Humility, notice, is relational. I can no more be humble by myself than I can play tennis by myself. Humility describes a particular way of living with others. The humble person does not engage in the game of increasing their status at the expense of others. The humble person is thereby free to welcome those like a child of “lower” status. And notice the punchline: “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me.”

Vv.6-11, using the metaphor of a stumbling block, call us to careful attention to the effects of our actions on others—and on ourselves. The others, described as “little ones who believe in me” are probably not simply literal children, but vulnerable church members. And then Jesus’ attention shifts to the ways we trip ourselves up. We’re called to a certain ruthlessness. Like a cancer that is harmless if caught quickly but fatal if allowed to grow, our sins too quickly move from things we control to things that control us.

Vv.12-14 take the careful attention a step further. It’s not just a matter of avoiding stumbling blocks, but of actively seeking those who are going astray. In Luke’s Gospel this parable serves to explain Jesus’ behavior, Jesus the Good Shepherd. Here in Matthew it’s describing the role of every disciple.

Vv.1-14 as a whole call the disciples to humility, attentiveness, and responsiveness. All the disciples; all the members of the church. It’s in that context, and perhaps only in that context, that vv.15-20 make sense. “If another member of the church sins against you…” then you are the shepherd who must seek out this lost sheep. A series of increasingly public steps are identified. The last “let such a one be to you as a Gentile and a tax collector” in Stanley Hauerwas’ words “is not to throw someone out of the church, but rather an attempt to help them see that they have become a stumbling block and are, therefore, already out of the church. Excommunication is a call to come home by undergoing the appropriate penance” (Matthew 165).

“Truly I tell you, whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.” We tend to think of our relationship to God as one thing, and our relationship to any particular parish as another. Our relationship to God is a given; we look for a parish that will nurture it. Jesus appears to have something else in mind. It is as a member of a parish that we are able to relate to God. “On this rock I will build my church,” within the church those who believe will grow in the knowledge and love of God. The progression is not, if you will, God-individual-church, but God-church-individual.

This vision of the people of God as the context for our growth in the knowledge and love of God helps us avoid the most common mis-application of vv.6-11. We hear “If your hand or your foot causes you to stumble, cut it off and throw it away…” and fear that this is a call to self-surgery. Since Jesus is dealing with us not as isolated individuals but as members of a Body, the instructions assume that each individual is in serious enough conversations with other Christians, relationships of mutual accountability perhaps, so that the offending hand or foot can be properly identified. This is another reason why the local body of Christ needs to be diverse, so that these fellow members are not simply echoing a single subculture’s assumptions and perceptions.

The church plays this role not because its members are such splendid people. Today’s text has reminded us that it’s composed of people who have to be reminded to become like children, exhorted to stop putting stumbling blocks in front of others and themselves, exhorted to go out and seek those who wander. Explicit provision has to be made—up front—for one sinning against another. And in next week’s reading we encounter the sober truth that if the church is going to function, it will be because its members are prepared to forgive each other not seven times, but seventy times seven. What sets the church apart is not the splendor of its members, but its way of dealing with our frailty and cussedness. Today’s and next week’s lessons make it clear that beneath our preferred veneers we’re ornery varmints (badgers, if you like), and that our salvation lies in learning together how to live together with Jesus as our center.

Rowan Williams, former Archbishop of Canterbury, has a splendid book on the Christian life (The Wound of Knowledge) in which he talks about growth as a Christian as a process of decentering, learning to live without treating myself as my center. What today’s text adds to that perception: decentering happens not through an esoteric set of spiritual exercises but in the daily disciplines of humility, attentiveness, and responsiveness, particularly toward “the least of these.”

Is Jesus really serious? The vision of life in the church laid out in today’s reading is so foreign to our natural instincts that it is hard not to see the doctrines which divide the churches as a mammoth exercise in avoidance: if we can argue about the Pope, predestination, the Eucharist, we can put off dealing with Jesus’ vision of a very risky common life.

The church: an interconnected body of folk who are learning to be humble, attentive, responsive. There are opportunities throughout the week to test that vision. There are even opportunities during coffee hour. Let’s see if Jesus knows what he’s talking about.

Readings (Track 1)

“Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” How does one overcome evil? How does God overcome evil? That’s one of the questions that runs through both the Old and New Testaments, and that comes into focus in today’s readings.

Very early on Genesis takes up and discards one popular answer to that question. Consider the narrator’s words before and after Noah’s flood. Before the flood:

“The LORD saw that the wickedness of humankind was great in the earth, and that every inclination of the thoughts of their hearts was only evil continually.” (Gen. 6:5)

And after the flood, as Noah offers a sacrifice:

“And when the LORD smelled the pleasing odor, the LORD said in his heart, ‘I will never again curse the ground because of humankind, for the inclination of the human heart is evil from youth; nor will I ever again destroy every living creature as I have done.’” (Gen. 8:21)

The flood sweeps away the evil-doers, but leaves the evil in the heart untouched. Aleksandre Solzhenitsyn nails it in The Gulag Archipelago: “If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?”

In the coming weeks we’ll hear God through Moses bringing Israel out of Egypt. On one hand, it’s clearly about overcoming evil. On the other hand, it accomplishes less than we might have hoped. Moses ascends Sinai to receive the law, and the just-freed Israelites decide that what they really need is that golden calf.

Well, maybe God overcomes evil by overwriting the operating system? Jeremiah’s words regarding the new covenant can be heard this way: “But this is the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel after those days, says the LORD: I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts…” (Jer. 31:33). The problem is human freedom: overcome that and you’ve overcome evil. But this does no justice to Jeremiah, and leaves God and Nurse Ratched (One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest) indistinguishable.

All of which brings us to Jesus’ “must” in “he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering.” Why ‘must’? Both Testaments offer multiple images and metaphors; we’ve been wondering what they mean ever since–this sermon is part of that wondering. Here are two popular answers in the West: (1) Our sin dishonors God; Jesus dies to restore God’s honor; (2) God’s justice demands punishment for sin; Jesus takes our punishment. But neither of these square easily with Jesus’ portrait of God in the prodigal son parable: the Father who runs to meet the son is scandalously unconcerned with honor and demands no punishment for the son’s misdeeds. As the rabbis teach, if there’s repentance, it’s game, set, match. But what if the prodigal has “made it” in that far country, a little pharaoh oppressing his workers? Or continues to see the father as either irrelevant or the enemy? Not to mention the self-righteous older brother, on the verge of going completely off the rails. How to overcome the evil that has no interest in being overcome?

So here’s what I’d invite you to wonder about. Jesus’ ‘must’: not about God’s honor, or God’s justice, but about how evil is overcome: with good, with non-retaliation. Jesus “must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day be raised.” And why must Jesus do that? There are more reasons than fit into a sermon; here are three.

First, Jesus is about to tell his disciples “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” Human history is full of generals who send the grunts into battle and stay comfortably behind the lines. Jesus isn’t going to ask us to do anything he hasn’t done himself.

Second, when it comes to the Kingdom of God, human history is full of examples of using it to feather our own nests. At the start of Jesus’ ministry the devil suggested three variants on this: feed the masses, give them the spectacular, give the gatekeepers their due, and you’ll do just fine. Or European Christians entering the Americas proclaiming their theft of indigenous land as God’s will. No: Jesus understands the difference between “Your kingdom come” and “My kingdom come.”

Third, that “and on the third day be raised.” Regimes then and now encourage compliance by claiming to have the last word. Jesus submits to death to prove that claim false. God bats last. The book of Hebrews puts it this way: “Since, therefore, the children share flesh and blood, he himself likewise shared the same things, so that through death he might destroy the one who has the power of death, that is, the devil, and free those who all their lives were held in slavery by the fear of death” (2:14-15).

What do Jesus’ words to the disciples come to? That Christians will always be persecuted? No: that depends on the decisions of those currently in power. That Christians are called to lose their life for Jesus’ sake and so find it? That’s what Paul lays out in our second reading: “extend hospitality to strangers.… Bless those who persecute you… weep with those who weep.… associate with the lowly… Do not repay anyone evil for evil,… Beloved, never avenge yourselves,… No, ‘if your enemies are hungry, feed them; if they are thirsty, give them something to drink;’… Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” That’s hard work: can I bless with equal sincerity Tammy Baldwin and Ron Johnson?

The New Testament scholar Gerhard Lohfink puts it this way:

“Sin does not just vanish in the air, even when it is forgiven, because sin does not end with the sinner. It has consequences. It always has a social dimension. Every sin embeds itself in human community, corrupts a part of the world, and creates a damaged environment.

“Even if God has forgiven all sin, the consequences of sin are not eliminated. What Adolf Hitler set in motion was by no means eliminated from the world by his death in April 1945, even if he was contrite and even if he himself was forgiven. The fearful consequences of National Socialism poison society until today, and they are still nesting in the lives of the surviving victims, even in the lives of their children and grandchildren.

“So the consequences of sin have to be worked off, and human beings cannot do so of themselves any more than they can absolve themselves. Genuine ‘working off’ of guilt is only possible on a basis that God himself must create. And God has created such a base in his people, and in Jesus he has renewed and perfected it” (Jesus of Nazareth: What he wanted, who he was).

In other words, evil is overcome in history, in the daily and sometimes unnoticed decisions of God’s people to bless, to repay evil with good. In the Eucharistic Prayer: “This is my Blood of the New Covenant, which is shed for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins.” The forgiveness of sins: God forgiving us and we forgiving others. Here, as elsewhere, Jesus is the Way, the Truth, and the Life.

Readings (Track 1)

With today’s Gospel this is a good Sunday to be at St Peter’s. Sometimes when Peter opens his mouth we wince—next Sunday’s reading comes to mind. This week we can pull out the confetti. Nevertheless, I’ll use the beginning of the Romans reading to shape the sermon. First we’ll notice the role Rom 12:1-2 plays in our Eucharistic prayers. We’ll notice the ways the other readings suggest what Rom 12:2 might look like in practice. Third, we’ll notice the unfinished business all this sets before us.

“I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship. Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God– what is good and acceptable and perfect.”

“Present your bodies as a living sacrifice.” With words and actions the Holy Eucharist unites two actions: the making present of Jesus’ self-offering and the self-offering of the congregation. The bread and the wine that come up during the offertory, all products of our labor, are stand-ins for ourselves. As Augustine used to say: look at the altar: that’s you up there. The same phrase “the Body of Christ” is used for the Sacrament and for those who partake. And the first BCP (16^th century) took up Paul’s words pretty much verbatim “And here we offer and present unto thee, O Lord, our selves, our souls and bodies, to be a reasonable, holy, and living sacrifice unto thee…” (from the Rite I prayer [BCP 336]). Rite II abbreviates, so Prayer B: “Unite us to your Son in his sacrifice, that we may be acceptable through him, being sanctified by the Holy Spirit” (BCP 369). Jesus’ self-offering; our self-offering. We could describe Christian discipleship as together seeking to shape a life between Masses that more closely reflects what we celebrate in the Mass.

If the actions and the language of every Mass remind us of Paul’s exhortation, what might responding to that exhortation look like? For that, the other two readings.

When we left the children of Israel last week they were literally that: the children (sons) of the patriarch Israel, a.k.a. Jacob. As the book of Exodus opens, ‘children of Israel’ now points to a nation. In a pattern that is entirely too familiar, they’re a minority in a foreign land, and that land’s ruler decides that they’re a threat to national security.

And it’s in that context that we get to watch how “Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds” plays out. It turns out, for starters, to be a call to be creative and to be uppity.

Scene 1: Pharaoh tells the Hebrew midwives to notice the gender of the newborn: the female babies may live; the male babies are to be killed. Undoubtedly the midwives gave every indication that they would comply—and then ignored the command. Hauled before Pharaoh to explain themselves, they come up with this lovely song and dance: “Because the Hebrew women are not like the Egyptian women; for they are vigorous and give birth before the midwife comes to them.” That’s not being conformed to this world.

Scene 2: Pharaoh commands that the newborn sons of the Hebrews be cast into the Nile, and Moses’ mother does exactly that—with slight modifications. There’s a little basket between Moses and the Nile itself, she times Moses’ entry into the water with the Pharaoh’s daughter’s customary bath, and sends out her own daughter to improvise. Pharaoh’s daughter finds Moses in the basket, pities him—and Moses’ sister is right there at her elbow offering to find a suitable wet-nurse. So Moses is saved, on a trajectory to be raised in the royal household, and his mother is being paid to nurse him. That’s not being conformed to this world.

I’m lingering over these two scenes also because in a couple of weeks in our second reading we’ll be hearing Paul’s “Let every person be subject to the governing authorities.” It’s much easier to deal responsibly with that text if we remember that it was written by a Jew who had undoubtedly broken into a broad grin listening to the stories we’ve just heard.

Scene 3—if you will—is provided by the Gospel reading. Jesus asks his disciples “who do you say that I am?” Peter—our Peter—replies “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.”

That confession, that Jesus is the Messiah, is the hinge of Matthew’s Gospel, because from here on out the disciples know who Jesus is, and the question is what being/acting as the Messiah will mean. That confession—heard in the context of the rest of Holy Scripture—points to the hinge of human history: Jesus, the unique Son of God, anointed by God to restore all things, now acknowledged as the Messiah, the Christ.

“Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah! For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father in heaven.” So Peter’s confession is the result of his having been transformed by the renewing of his mind. That didn’t happen all at once—it was a process that included everything that prepared Peter to take John the Baptist seriously and to say “yes” to Jesus’ call. The process was by no means complete—as Peter’s words in next week’s lesson will make clear

“And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it.” It’s worth pausing to notice that the first person not conformed to the world is Jesus, for he doesn’t respond to Peter’s confession with “Right, so you all need better swords.” Or, “I’m going to call on a few angelic legions to clean up this place.” Jesus hasn’t let the dominant ideas about the messiah’s role color his understanding. No, “I will build my church.” Jesus’ non-conformity is the backstory; Peter’s non-conformity/transformation is spelled out.

“You are Peter.” It looks like this is when Jesus gives Simon his new name, why we’re at St Peter’s rather than St Simon’s. Pulling back the camera, it looks like a replay of God renaming Abram “Abraham.” In both cases a new people are being created, and the point person gets a new name.

Why “Peter”? It’s a play on words in Greek (and in the probable Aramaic original). “You are Peter (Petros), and on this rock (petra) I will build my church. (Think ‘petrify’, ‘petroglyph’, or ‘petroleum’.) We might recall that Abraham had been described as a rock (Isa 51:1-2) and recall that closing parable in the Sermon on the Mount: the house built on sand vs. the house built on rock. This church has a firm foundation and—despite the gates of Hades—it will endure.

Sadly, Jesus’ followers have been unable to agree on just what these words mean, and their different interpretations are at the heart of the divisions between the Eastern Orthodox, Protestant, and Roman churches. At one of the last Anglican-Roman Catholic dialogues the participants were able to agree that Peter among the apostles enjoyed a certain primacy which was in a certain sense passed to the subsequent bishops of Rome, but acknowledged that they didn’t agree on what either of the occurrences of the word ‘certain’ meant.

What of “I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.” As elsewhere in today’s Gospel, I like what Davies and Allison do with the verse. Recalling Jesus’ words later in the Gospel (“But woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you lock people out of the kingdom of heaven. For you do not go in yourselves, and when others are going in, you stop them.” [23:13]), Davies and Allison suggest that the New Testament sees Peter’s use of the keys primarily in his evangelistic activity. He preaches at Pentecost; he and John lay hands on the new Samaritan believers so that they receive the Spirit, he preaches to the gentiles gathered at Cornelius’ home. In passing, that the keys do not entail the authority sometimes claimed by Rome is suggested by Paul’s rebuke of Peter over table fellowship with Gentiles, recorded in his letter to the Galatians (2:11ff).

But back to Paul in Romans, and the promised “unfinished business” part of the sermon. Paul moves directly from that don’t-be-conformed-but-be-transformed exhortation into a description of what life in community looks like. We are, says Paul, like a body, with different members having different gifts and all needing each other. Elsewhere: “I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth.” God hasn’t given any of us individually the gifts we need to stop conforming, to be transformed—but He’s given them to us as a group. As good Americans, this takes some getting used to. There’s tremendous cultural pressure to make decisions about being in church or not based on our perceptions of our own needs rather than the needs of the Body. Our participation is as much about the gifts God’s given us being available to others as it is about our needs getting met.

“And here we offer and present unto thee, O Lord, our selves, our souls and bodies, to be a reasonable, holy, and living sacrifice unto thee…” This self-offering sets us on a trajectory toward a particular sort of life, a life more closely interknit with the folk next to us in the pews, with the brothers and sisters praying the same prayer in countless other languages in other parts of the globe. Does my participation in the Eucharist nudge me towards greater concern for or involvement with other parishioners, other Christians? That’s a pretty good indicator of what my Eucharistic doctrine is. In the twenty-first century there are a fresh crop of Pharaohs breathing down our necks; inspired by the Hebrew midwives and in the power of the Spirit we have the opportunity together to discover how to give them a run for their money.

Readings (Track 1)

Today’s readings contain far too many issues to deal with even in a long sermon. So let me start by noticing what I’m leaving out.

Joseph’s famine relief strategy. It succeeds, but as the text recounts, at tremendous cost, the Egyptians finally having to sell themselves into slavery to Pharaoh to get the grain to stay alive. This disquieting cost probably motivates one of the more interesting textual variants in Genesis. In 47:21 most Hebrew texts read “As for the people, he removed them to the cities,” but the Hebrew text preserved by the Samaritans and the Greek translations reads “As for the people, he made slaves of them.” Moses brings the Hebrew slaves out of Egypt but leaves the Egyptian people enslaved. There’s some serious unfinished business there.

Paul’s “For the gifts and the calling of God are irrevocable.” The Holocaust forced a rethink of the centuries-old popular idea that the Jews have been replaced as the people of God by the Church, forced us to take this statement of Paul’s more seriously. We’re still working out just what that means.

Jesus’ words: “Do you not see that whatever goes into the mouth enters the stomach, and goes out into the sewer? But what comes out of the mouth proceeds from the heart, and this is what defiles.” If we’re worried about defilement, maybe better to focus on the heart than on, say, what books are in the public and school libraries.

Last—still noticing what I’m leaving out—while we like how today’s Gospel ends, the preceding verses have long been difficult to understand. What factors in Matthew’s context led him to tell the story the way he does? We don’t know, but continue to work on it.

OK, what’s left? From Genesis: “So it was not you who sent me here, but God.” Understandable hyperbole, but less helpful than what Joseph says later, when, after the death of their father, the brothers come to Joseph terrified that now the gloves will come off. Joseph’s response: “Do not be afraid! Am I in the place of God? Even though you intended to do harm to me, God intended it for good, in order to preserve a numerous people, as he is doing today. So have no fear; I myself will provide for you and your little ones” (50:19-21).

“Even though you intended to do harm to me, God intended it for good.” Joseph doesn’t downplay the evil intentions of his brothers, but he understands that knowing their intentions is not enough to explain what had happened: “God intended it for good.”

This is important for us. Each one of us faces evil, and we do not always have the resources to turn it aside. And part of the fear that we may feel in these situations comes from the sense that our enemies have control of our reality. And what we need to remember in these situations is that God also has intentions. Whatever is happening, God intends it for good. So is evil God’s will? No. But God is capable of using the evil intentions of others for our good.

Immediately? Not necessarily. Joseph spent a good deal of time in slavery and/or in Egyptian prisons before coming into power and confronting his brothers.

“Even though you intended to do harm to me, God intended it for good.” If we understand this, it will help us live with hope in otherwise unbearable situations. And here I’m thinking about two different situations.

The first situation: when we’re the victims. Sometimes this has to do with enemies in the classic sense: other human beings who directly oppose us. Today it’s more frequently the case that those who mean evil against us are simply people, companies, or institutions whose good as they understand it involves our harm. It’s often more profitable to market dangerous drugs, to lie to hobble efforts to address our role in climate change. It’s often more effective to take the low road in political contests.

But I spoke of two situations in which this “Even though you intended to do harm to me, God intended it for good” allowing us to live in hope. The second situation is when we have to confront our own sins. I have damaged other people. It’s really important to know that even in those situations God was seeking their good. That’s not a justification for my actions; it does allow me to look at my actions without self-deception or despair.

“Even though you intended to do harm to me, God intended it for good.”  And God is capable of this? This is the testimony not only of Genesis, but also of St. Paul. Had we let our second reading run one more verse we would have heard “O the depth of the riches and wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable are his judgments and how inscrutable his ways!”

Can we imagine this, that Joseph’s words can be mapped onto the massive evil we face today? Probably not. That’s why Paul’s language is important: “unsearchable…inscrutable.” This is familiar and uncomfortable territory for God’s people. The Babylonian army burning Solomon’s temple, Jesus dead on the cross that Friday afternoon: how does God salvage anything from these? But God did; God does. So Paul’s words, about God and about our hope as we put ourselves in God’s hands.

But back to Joseph…

“Do not be afraid! Am I in the place of God?” Joseph knows that he is not God, and this knowledge gives tremendous freedom. His destiny, his fortune, his vindication—none of these are in his hands; they’re in God’s hands. So Joseph is free simply to follow God’s law, God’s character, free to pardon and reconcile instead of seeking vengeance.

Our society places a heavy burden on each one of us. Each one of us, we’re told, needs to play God’s role, deciding for ourselves what is right, what is wrong, mapping out and achieving our individual destinies. Each person needs to play the role of their own god. The good news is that we don’t have to bear this heavy burden; we don’t have to play God’s role. This doesn’t mean an easy life, but it does mean that we don’t have to juggle two roles, that of God and of a human being. Also for this reason Jesus said: “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

Now, the story of Joseph is complete in itself. At the same time, it plays a critical role in the Book of Genesis. The first couple, Adam and Eve, sin precisely in seeking to become like God. The serpent had lied: “You will not die; for God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil” (3:4-5). They ate, and death entered, beginning with the conflict between the first brothers, Cain and Abel. And this mortal conflict has continued through the Book of Genesis: Ishmael and Isaac, Esau and Jacob, Joseph and his brothers. And precisely in the moment in which Joseph can continue this cycle, he reverses his ancestors’ decision: “am I in the place of God?” And the book of Genesis, instead of ending in a pool of blood, ends by opening itself to a future in God’s hands.

“Do not be afraid! Am I in the place of God? Even though you intended to do harm to me, God intended it for good.” Something to chew on, not simply during the coming week, but during all of our lives.

Readings (Track 1)

Back in mid-June we heard the beginning of the Abraham story with those grand promises of land, posterity, and blessing. Today, a few generations down the line, the whole thing is skidding into the ditch. Jacob has learned nothing about reigning in favoritism, Joseph’s emotional intelligence only has room to improve, and Joseph’s brothers have just sold him to traders headed for Egypt. The smart money might be on the Bible ending at the end of today’s reading.

Then there’s the Gospel. Jesus has sent the disciples off to cross the lake and—at night—they’re battered by the waves, far from the land, the wind against them. So the next chapter will start with Jesus choosing a new batch of disciples?

This, I suppose, is the first thing to notice from these readings: the scenes at the end of the Genesis reading and toward the beginning of the Matthew reading look like endings. By God’s intervention, they’re not, and that might nourish our courage as we face the various situations that have “The End” written all over them.

Next week’s Genesis reading picks up the story years later, and we might wonder how Joseph gets transformed. The Joseph of today’s reading: the fulfillment of his dreams would be very bad news for everyone! So, if you have the chance, read the intervening chapters during the week. They picture a world that should feel familiar. Two quick examples. Potiphar’s wife accuses Joseph of trying to rape her. Potiphar’s obvious response would be to execute Joseph on the spot, but he sends him off to prison because—reading between the lines—that’s easier than confronting his wife over her preferred recreational activities. Pharaoh’s cupbearer’s memory: he first “forgets” and then “remembers” Joseph. This has nothing to do with his memory; it has everything to do with his calculations as to when it’s in his self-interest to keep silent or speak up. And in that world with so many shades of gray Joseph’s God is still able to get things done.

Matthew’s story. It’s obviously a rescue story. It’s equally a sort of epiphany story. The Lord walking on the waters: that’s a frequent OT motif:

From the Book of Job, describing God: “who alone stretched out the heavens and trampled the waves of the Sea;” [9:8]

From the prophet Habakkuk, speaking to God: “You trampled the sea with your horses, churning the mighty waters.” [3.15]

From the Psalms, also speaking to God: “Your way was through the sea, your path, through the mighty waters; yet your footprints were unseen.” [77:19]

And in this scene what had been literary motif becomes part of the narrative.

And then there’s Jesus’ response: “Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.” “It is I” is a legitimate translation; but the Greek “egō eimi” also appears as a form of divine self-identification. So, for example, “You are my witnesses, says the LORD, my servant, whom I chose, so that you would know and believe me and understand that I am” (Isa. 43:10 CEB*; cf 45:18, 19; 46:4; 51:12).

So Matthew ends the story with “And those in the boat worshiped him, saying, ‘Truly you are the Son of God,’” giving “worshiped” and “Son of God” their full weight. (In Matthew’s Gospel this occurs a few chapters before the Transfiguration story we heard last week, and serves as a sort of run-up to it.)

And in the middle of the story a twist unique to Matthew: After Jesus’ “Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid” we read “Peter answered him, ‘Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.’ He said, ‘Come.’ So Peter got out of the boat, started walking on the water, and came toward Jesus.”

I am in awe of Peter at this moment, because he gets it right. Think of what he could have said:
“Lord, if it is you, how come all this is happening to us?”
“Lord, if it is you, what were you thinking when you sent us off into this storm?”
“Lord, if it is you, make it all stop now.”
No: “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” Let me do what you’re doing.

Rabbi Kuschner starts his famous book (now in a 20^th Anniversary edition) with this: “There is only one question which really matters: why do bad things happen to good people.” Perhaps the book gets better, but it’s not off to a good start, because neither Testament of our Bible is particularly interested in this question. The Bible’s question is how God is overcoming evil and how we are invited into that process. Not “make it stop” but “let me walk on it too.”

In the Book of Acts, when the church first meets persecution, we meet the same attitude in the church’s prayer: “And now, Lord, look at their threats.” And make them stop? No: “and grant to your servants to speak your word with all boldness, while you stretch out your hand to heal, and signs and wonders are performed through the name of your holy servant Jesus.”

There’s a case to be made for chutzpah as one of the underrated gifts of the Spirit.

But back to Peter. Jesus responds to Peter’s request with one word: “‘Come.’ So Peter gets out of the boat, starts walking on the water, coming toward Jesus. But then his attention shifts to the strong wind, he becomes frightened, and begins to sink; “Lord, save me!”

Well, that’s familiar territory. G. K. Chesterton put it superbly: “If a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing badly.” Not that we should be content with doing it badly, but sometimes badly is the best we can do. And the Peter who gets out of the boat is the Peter who later stands in front of the crowd at Pentecost, who walks into the Gentile centurion Cornelius’ house to preach Jesus. Walking on the water was warm-up.

So, whether it’s situations that look like “The End” or “Bad Things Happening to Good People,” the good news for Joseph, Peter, and us is that God finds us, comes to us. And with that there’s Peter as a model: hunkering down in the boat is not our only option. How might today’s Gospel color the way we experience the coming week and how we respond to it?

Readings

Today we’re celebrating the Feast of the Transfiguration, a feast of enough weight that it bumps the usual Sunday after Pentecost readings. Let’s dive in.

Our Gospel begins “Now about eight days after these sayings…” “These sayings”? Luke is pointing back to that high-voltage conversation: “Who do you say that I am?” “The Messiah.” “Which means going to Jerusalem to be rejected, executed, and rise on the third day.” “No way, Lord!” “Yes, way.” And: “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me” (Lk. 9:23).

So Jesus is the Messiah (and the disciples have already been sent out by twos to heal, exorcise, and announce the Kingdom) but Jesus’ understanding of being Messiah is completely off everyone’s map. It’s fair to say that the disciples are off-balance from then on. Pulling back the camera: following Jesus was about as “sensible” an option in the first century as it is in the twenty-first. And while the resurrection and Pentecost restored some balance, almost immediately uncircumcised Gentiles were receiving the Spirit, and how do we get our heads around that? Perhaps being off-balance is part of the package.

Anyway, back to the text. “Now about eight days after these sayings…” the disciples are probably wondering if it wouldn’t be smarter to go back to fishing, tax collecting, etc. So it looks like whatever else it is, the Transfiguration is an exercise in damage control. The whole situation doesn’t make sense, but the Transfiguration shows there’s more going on than meets the eye, and the Voice from Jesus’ baptism returns: “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!”

When we heard this story back in February I observed that the disciples—all good Jews—knew who Moses and Elijah were; Jesus was the one they were still trying to place. How does Jesus relate to what we already know? But “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!” destabilizes that: listen to Jesus to understand Moses and Elijah.

We Gentiles aren’t particularly worried about Moses and Elijah, but we do assume that there’s plenty we already know. And here “know” is about both our ideas and the institutions we inhabit—or that inhabit us. I find it helpful to think in terms of the Greek pantheon. We know how wealth works (Pluto and Wall Street). We know how power works (Ares and the Pentagon). Etc. How, we wonder, does Jesus fit into all of that? And then “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!” So the problem is not how Jesus fits in Pluto’s world, but how Pluto fits in Jesus’ world.

In February we were reading from Matthew; today’s text is from Luke. Luke tells us that Jesus, Moses, and Elijah “were speaking of his departure, which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem.” ‘Departure’ is a possible translation, but obscures the point, for the Greek word is exodos, which already in the Old Testament names the Israelites’ departure from Egypt. So with that word Luke gives us an interpretation of the Jerusalem events: it’s Exodus 2.0, it’s about freedom. Pluto, Mars, Aphrodite, Apollo, Athena: welcome to Jesus’ world.

A sidebar: there’s a school of Eucharistic devotion that emphasizes our sin, and how much it cost Jesus. And we don’t want to lose sight of our sin. But Luke’s “exodus” reminds us that Eucharist (the word means, recall, ‘thanksgiving’) is about how God sets us free. And in that context “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!” reminds us that it’s hard to live as free people if we’re still thinking like slaves.

Then there’s Themis, the Greek goddess of justice (the figure with the scales that’s part of our iconography). In today’s psalm we prayed “O mighty King, lover of justice, / you have established equity; / you have executed justice and righteousness in Jacob.” And particularly with justice it’s so easy to assume that we and Themis already know what justice means.

But for that conversation we need to go back to Moses. Moses’ law shares much with other ancient near eastern codes, but departs in important ways: crimes against people and property are not commensurate, the social status of the victim does not automatically set the penalty, only one eye for an eye, runaway slaves: do not return them to their owner. So already Moses is pushing against some common assumptions about justice.

And, particularly in Matthew—this year’s Gospel—this “what is justice” conversation goes into high gear. The first story Matthew tells is of Joseph, who’s introduced as a just man, but the angel has to challenge Joseph’s justice, lest Mary be “put away quietly.” The scribes and Pharisees were clearly preferable to all the other groups when it came to justice, but Jesus warns “unless your justice exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” We spent most of the Epiphany season listening to Jesus spell that out in Matthew’s “Sermon on the Mount.”

The danger of assuming we know all we need to know about justice is easily illustrated by noticing the speck in our neighbor’s eye. Our brother Patriarch Kirill in Moscow has—tragically—been loudly labeling Putin’s invasion of Ukraine as just. But rather than say “how stupid” or “how evil,” perhaps we should be noticing how easy it is to assume that the Holy One adheres to our notions of justice.

“This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!” It’s a life-long challenge/opportunity. A ‘disciple’ is a learner, and there’s no stage beyond disciple, no now-I’ve-learned-all-I-need-to-know stage. So our Book of Common Prayer begins with the Daily Office.

So I suppose this week’s take-away is personal. “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!” How’s my listening going? What might I want to tweak/adjust/overhaul?

Lessons (Track 1)

As we’ve heard in the first reading, our hero Jacob has arrived in Haran. Why Haran? Well, taking advantage of the darkness of his father’s blindness, he’d stolen his brother Esau’s blessing, and Esau was out for blood. More, God had promised him many descendants, for that he needed a wife, and what better place to look than his ancestral stomping-ground?

There are two elements in the text we’re not going to focus on, and a third that will be our focus.

The first is the theme of brothers in competition, which has been almost a constant element in Genesis: Cain and Abel, Ishmael and Isaac, Esau and Jacob. And now two sisters: Leah and Rachel. In today’s text they appear very passive; in the texts immediately following their competition will dominate the action. (And those texts are very instructive for males with any fantasies regarding polygamy!) Jacob’s favorite is Rachel, but in God’s pleasure Leah has six sons, including Judah, ancestor of our Lord. The competition and preferences seem nearly inevitable, but we should not suppose—so the text—that God is going to put up with these indefinitely.

The second element: poetic justice as a sign of God’s presence. Jacob had taken advantage of the darkness of his father’s blindness to substitute the younger (himself) for the older (Esau) to steal the paternal blessing. Laban used the darkness of the wedding night to substitute the older (Leah) for the younger (Rachel). “What goes around, comes around.” Or, from St Paul:  “Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.” Nevertheless, this is more the promise of a resolution than the resolution itself. “Eye for eye” alone produces a nation of the blind.

That leaves the element of desire or love. “So Jacob served seven years for Rachel, and they seemed to him but a few days because of the love he had for her.”

And I focus on desire because Jesus focuses on it in the text we heard this morning: “The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field, which a man found and covered up; then in his joy he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field. Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant in search of fine pearls, who, on finding one pearl of great value, went and sold all that he had and bought it.”

Now that’s downright interesting. When people think about the kingdom of heaven, or, more broadly, the Christian life, they’re likely to do so in terms of the fear of God (perhaps expressed as what happens to me if I don’t) or of duty. And both the fear of God and duty can be pretty important. But here Jesus is talking about something else: desire.

The kingdom like a hidden treasure, the kingdom like a pearl of great price. And the finder responds neither through fear nor duty, but through desire. And the sacrifices the finder makes are like the 14 years that Jacob dedicated to gaining Rachel.

Where does Jesus get these parables? In this case I think he’s describing his own experience. How so? From the perspective of Matthew, Mark, and Luke, he’s left the carpentry shop and now has nowhere to lay his head. From the perspective of Paul, he “did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men.” The Jesus we encounter in the Gospels: a man motivated not by fear, or by duty, but by desire.

That’s Jesus, and to Jesus we might add those we celebrate during the Church Year, and perhaps a few people we know. But how about us? Do we desire God and God’s kingdom? Sometimes. Where does this leave us?

We encounter ourselves as a swarm of desires, which rarely point in the same direction. On the trivial level: I want to be thin; I want unlimited amounts of chocolate. Part of growing up: learning that any serious desire means foregoing other desires.

If we think about the people we know and the people who keep reporters busy, we realize that the choices we make about our desires over time have a cumulative effect: there are lives of great beauty, other lives that are simply ugly, others that leave you scratching your head: “What was that about?”

Further, it’s often a problem to figure out what it is that we desire. We work hard for something we want, and then discover it’s not what we want. The Christian claim is that if we honestly pay attention to this, over time it will lead us to God. Augustine’s Confessions is organized around this insight: “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless till they find their rest in you.”

So how do I deal with my desires? There’s a hard and a less hard way of doing this, and it’s related to today’s collect:

O God, the protector of all who trust in you, without whom nothing is strong, nothing is holy: Increase and multiply upon us your mercy; that, with you as our ruler and guide, we may so pass through things temporal, that we lose not the things eternal…

The hard way is to do it without God as our ruler and guide. And like Augustine this long-term process of trial and error may eventually bring us to God. But this is not the only possible outcome; we can make choices whose cumulative effect is that we can perceive God only as enemy, and then how or whether God can get through to us is beyond human reckoning. So it’s risky.

The less hard way is learning to trust God as ruler and guide, to risk letting God shape or order our desires. The early chapters of Genesis tell us two things. We are created good and in God’s image, so we do not assume that desire per se is wrong. On this point we approach the world differently than the Buddhist, or the Stoic, who assume that desire in itself is the problem. But the second thing the early chapters of Genesis tell us is that we are in rebellion against God, so we do not assume that any of our desires are unaffected. As the collect reminds us, without God “nothing is strong, nothing is holy.” So these chapters tell me that I need to hold each of my desires up to God, and ask “What do you desire that I do with this?”

As we learn to trust God as ruler and guide, as God shapes our desires, these desires become stronger, not weaker. They give us greater, not less, coherence as human beings. They give us the capacity to sell all for that pearl of great price, to give 14 years for Rachel.

Now—and with this I close—the glorious secret is that our desire is only a weak response to God’s desire. “For I am sure that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” God, the original Lover. And if we return to Jacob laboring 14 years for Rachel, we can see also not so much ourselves laboring to gain God, but God laboring to gain us—for love’s sake.

Readings (Track 1) (Psalm 139 in its entirety appears at the end of the sermon.)

If you’re feeling some whiplash after today’s combination of readings it means you’ve been paying attention. At first glance they go in different directions—so let’s attend to them separately. (And please keep your BCP open to Ps 139 on pp.794-795.)

Genesis. Last week we watched Jacob get Esau’s birthright in exchange for a serving of stew. Since then, that strange scene (equal parts farce and tragedy) in which Jacob, dressed up to smell and feel like Esau, tricks his blind father Isaac into giving him Esau’s blessing. Since then, all Esau’s fantasies have focused on ways to kill Jacob, so Jacob’s been sent off to the relatives until Esau’s anger cools. And in all this God has said nothing to Jacob.

Doubtless, Esau would have had plenty of suggestions as to what God might do/say. “Oh, that you would slay the wicked, O God!” (v.18 in today’s psalm). What God does say: a reiteration of the promises made to Abraham and Isaac, and “Know that I am with you and will keep you wherever you go, and will bring you back to this land; for I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.”

In short: “I love you; I have plans for you; I look forward to what we can do together.” I think Scripture as a whole encourages us to hear this as God’s address to each one of us. You might want to take today’s lessons home and reflect on God’s words to Jacob during the week. Imagine God expressing that love to you. In today’s psalm (v.13): “I will thank you because I am marvelously made; / your works are wonderful, and I know it well.” Texts like today’s Genesis reading help us believe that.

We let the Genesis reading run a bit farther than the Lectionary assigned to hear the rest of Jacob’s reaction. It’s pure Jacob, that Jacob that’s part of many of us. God’s promise is too general: Jacob wants it nailed down: “If God will be with me, and will keep me in this way that I go, and will give me bread to eat and clothing to wear, so that I come again to my father’s house in peace, then…” This distrust doesn’t serve Jacob well, but it’s part of the package, part of the package that God—unsurprised—is dealing with. “Lord, you have searched me out, and known me” applies also to Jacob. And perhaps Jacob’s distrust is  part of the futility that Paul talks about that we bring to the table.

Romans. There’s a lot we could notice here; for today I’m focusing on futility. ‘Futility’: Paul uses the word the Greek translation used for the hebel ‘vanity’ that the preacher wrestles with throughout the book of Ecclesiastes. Paul describes it—in passing—as being God’s choice. If asked to explain, I think Paul would say that faced with human disobedience and valuing human freedom, God chooses to let the history play out, including the effects of these disobedient choices, a divine choice that admittedly brings significant pain. “The woman whom you gave to be with me, she gave me fruit from the tree, and I ate” (Gen. 3:12) says Adam, and so sets the stage for patriarchy. And, since—as the ecologists keep reminding us—everything is connected to everything—human choices damage all creation, so that, as Paul puts it “the whole creation has been groaning in labor pains until now.” So an important take-away: if groaning is part of our present experience, it’s not because we lack faith, or have hit a particularly rough patch (although these things could also be true), but because that’s an appropriate response to our situation, a situation survivable, as Paul reminds us, only by hope.

Matthew. Two weeks ago we hit the question: if Jesus is “the one who is to come” (John the Baptist’s words), why isn’t there more visible progress? And we heard Jesus’ answer: the “wise” and “intelligent” wouldn’t see the Kingdom if it was right in front of them; come to me (all of you!) and I will give you rest. But, since it’s not a simple question, we heard another answer last week: even the divine word is at once powerful and vulnerable: the soil really matters. So “Let anyone with ears listen!”

And because it’s not a simple question, we hear another answer in today’s reading: the Son of Man isn’t the only one sowing seed. (This is probably another dimension of the futility Paul mentions!) Perhaps the clearest echo of this parable is in our baptismal rite:

Do you renounce Satan and all the spiritual forces of wickedness that rebel against God?
I renounce them.
Do you renounce the evil powers of this world which corrupt and destroy the creatures of God?
I renounce them. (BCP 302)

As soil, we need to choose which seed to welcome, and keep choosing.

Equally relevant is the interchange within the parable:

Then do you want us to go and gather them?
No; for in gathering the weeds you would uproot the wheat along with them.

As other New Testament texts show, in some circumstances “Let both of them grow together” is not the end of the conversation. But it’s a standing warning that attempts to separate weeds and wheat bring their own dangers. Recall Joseph McCarthy and the red scare in the 50s or the church splits over women’s ordination and sexuality. It’s relevant on the personal level. Star Trek TNG fans may recall the episode “The Tapestry.” Captain Picard’s artificial heart is failing. He has an artificial heart because of an impetuous decision in his youth. The character named “Q” gives him the chance to go back in time and make a different decision. But as a result of the different decision he turns out to be a colorless ensign quite unfit for any command. Wheat and weeds: not always so easy to distinguish.

Psalm 139 (BCP 794-795). The psalms are tools for both prayer and reflection. Prayer: there are circumstances in which what’s in our hearts can only be expressed by verses like 18-21. (Wheat and weeds: if “the evil powers of this world which corrupt and destroy the creatures of God” don’t move me to anger, something else is wrong.) So the verses are there—but precariously. Reflection: Jesus’ example (“Come to me, all you…”) warns me that the “restless thoughts” (v.22) and “wickedness” (v.23) might relate to vv.18-21 in uncomfortable ways. And both vv.18-21 and 22-23 can work pastorally: vv.18-21 to guard against assuming I’m so “advanced” that these would never cross my lips, vv.22-23 to guard against getting stuck in vv.18-21.

How do we wrap this up? Maybe like this. Let’s read v.13 together: “I will thank you because I am marvelously made; / your works are wonderful, and I know it well.” That points to our past and present. At the end of today’s Gospel: “Then the righteous will shine like the sun in the kingdom of their Father. Let anyone with ears listen!” That’s the future God desires for each of us. So, indeed, “Let anyone with ears listen!”

Psalm 139 (Book of Common Prayer 794-795)

1 Lord, you have searched me out and known me; * you know my sitting down and my rising up; you discern my thoughts from afar.

2 You trace my journeys and my resting-places * and are acquainted with all my ways.

3 Indeed, there is not a word on my lips, * but you, O Lord, know it altogether.

4 You press upon me behind and before * and lay your hand upon me.

5 Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; * it is so high that I cannot attain to it.

6 Where can I go then from your Spirit? * where can I flee from your presence?

7 If I climb up to heaven, you are there; * if I make the grave my bed, you are there also.

8 If I take the wings of the morning * and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,

9 Even there your hand will lead me * and your right hand hold me fast.

10 If I say, “Surely the darkness will cover me, * and the light around me turn to night,”

11 Darkness is not dark to you;the night is as bright as the day; * darkness and light to you are both alike.

12 For you yourself created my inmost parts; * you knit me together in my mother’s womb.

13 I will thank you because I am marvelously made; * your works are wonderful, and I know it well.

14 My body was not hidden from you, * while I was being made in secret and woven in the depths of the earth.

15vYour eyes beheld my limbs, yet unfinished in the womb; all of them were written in your book; * they were fashioned day by day, when as yet there was none of them.

16 How deep I find your thoughts, O God! * how great is the sum of them!

17 If I were to count them, they would be more in number than the sand; * to count them all, my life span would need to be like yours.

18 Oh, that you would slay the wicked, O God! * You that thirst for blood, depart from me.

19 They speak despitefully against you; * your enemies take your Name in vain.

20 Do I not hate those, O Lord, who hate you? * and do I not loathe those who rise up against you?

21 I hate them with a perfect hatred; * they have become my own enemies.

22 Search me out, O God, and know my heart; * try me and know my restless thoughts.

23 Look well whether there be any wickedness in me * and lead me in the way that is everlasting.